


given-taken

by permutative



Category: ENHYPEN (Band), TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Beomgyu is a Beautiful Fool, Hand Jobs, Heeseung Has Bad Taste in Hats and Men, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/permutative/pseuds/permutative
Summary: “This morning. Your shirt was so fucking ugly,” Beomgyu whispers, harsh, pressing their foreheads together. “I wanted—I wanted—”“Wanted what?” Heeseung asks softly. He shuts his eyes, eyelashes trembling against his cheek. “Come on. Say it.”“I wanted to rip it off you, obviously,” Beomgyu continues in a rush. He doesn’t bother waiting for Heeseung’s response—doesn’t want to listen to some glib remark in reply, a goadingwell, why didn’t you?that he can already hear so clearly in his head. Instead, Beomgyu finally closes the distance between their mouths.(or: heeseung has terrible taste in clothes, and beomgyu... well. he's kind of into it. heeseung, that is.)
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Lee Heeseung
Comments: 19
Kudos: 78
Collections: WIP OLYMPICS: WINTER 2020/21





	given-taken

**Author's Note:**

> set in an alternate universe where txt's maknae-line (beomgyu, taehyun, kai) + enha's hyung-line (heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon) are in the same group together
> 
> i originally posted this on anon but now that i have an [actual reason](https://markohmark.dreamwidth.org/12205.html#cutid9) to ship them, i'm just going to let this be here. i'm so sorry that this is my first txtha fic, i will reflect and produce better txthas in the future. pls anticipate! ^^

It starts, as always, because Beomgyu can’t keep his damn mouth shut. That’s what Taehyun would say, anyway; not that Beomgyu would ever tell him about something like this, outright. Otherwise he’d have to deal with Taehyun’s smug expression as he says _I told you so._

Here’s what really happens: Heeseung walks into the kitchen, ready for breakfast, and he’s wearing the ugliest thing known to man.

Beomgyu has spent the past three years training and later working alongside Heeseung, same-aged friends and all of that. In doing so he has witnessed firsthand the degradation of Heeseung’s fashion sense from something bland and nearly nonexistent to an abomination of epic proportions. Beomgyu isn’t being dramatic, he swears.

He’s used to the beanies by now, even the patterned neon ones that make Heeseung’s head look like a traffic sign. He’s no stranger to the oversized flannels nor the ugly sweatshirts with vintage graphics that Heeseung himself barely understands— _Jay told me it meant something cool, so I figured it was fine_ Heeseung had said, when prompted—and the blankness on Heeseung’s face when Beomgyu’s sputtering at him for his sartorial choices.

And yet.

And yet, there’s something in particular about the juxtaposition of Heeseung’s pink, cartoon-fronted t-shirt and his dark patterned Bermuda shorts that makes Beomgyu’s blood sing with a special type of anger. It boils in his veins, uncontrollable and utterly ridiculous.

Maybe Beomgyu woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Maybe he’s just starting to lose his mind, just like Taehyun had always said he would. And maybe, just _maybe,_ it’s because Heeseung had decided to aim for something shameless and revealing instead of his usual grandpa-adjacent look. 

See, Heeseung’s t-shirt has rips in it. Deliberate, near-artful rips—Beomgyu can’t help but notice the patch of skin left open at Heeseung’s right shoulder, another jagged tear opening up underneath Heeseung’s left arm. Innocent enough, sure, but teasing. Utterly ugly, too, leaving an ambiguous mixture of feelings coagulating in his gut. 

Heeseung catches his gaze and regards him calmly, wide eyes revealing nothing for the moment. They might have trained for three years together, might be born in the same year, but Beomgyu still finds Heeseung so difficult to read sometimes. 

“Is there something wrong, Beomgyu-yah?” Heeseung asks after a moment.

Again. Beomgyu can’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Your clothes,” Beomgyu starts. “They’re ugly as shit.” He pauses, then adds, “no offense.” Not that Heeseung’s ever been offended at his jabs, over the years, but there’s nothing like that extra safety net to make Beomgyu feel like he hasn’t said something unintentionally revealing. Or maybe it’s just Heeseung who’s better at unearthing the truths Beomgyu would rather stay buried, unnoticed. 

Heeseung blinks at him, then smiles, an awkward flash of teeth. “Thanks?” Beomgyu doesn’t think he’s seen Heeseung smile properly more than a handful of times over the past year. A side effect of the shiny white new veneers he sports now. It is most definitely _not_ endearing, or anything.

So Beomgyu looks away, instead. He pretends as if he hadn’t just been ogling the snatches of bare, exposed skin. The clothes aren’t the real problem, and Beomgyu can’t quite remedy _that_ yet. It’s still 9 AM in the morning, after all.

He’ll have to wait until the night falls. 

The day passes by in a whirlwind of dance practices and vocal sessions. Heeseung removes the hat, thankfully—Beomgyu will never understand his aversion to showing his actual scalp for once, it isn’t like Heeseung had to go through the pain of _bleaching his hair blonde_ during the last comeback—even if he insists on the same infuriating t-shirt while they practice choreography. 

When they take a break, Beomgyu flops down, back to the hardwood floor as he stares up at the ceiling. 

Someone steps into his plane of vision, and it takes a second for Beomgyu’s eyes to adjust at this angle. Ah, of course—Heeseung. He passes Beomgyu’s water bottle over silently, nudging it against Beomgyu’s side. 

Beomgyu sits up, then, taking sips from the bottle gratefully. Heeseung might be just as sweaty as him, shaggy bangs plastered to his forehead, but he glows in self-satisfaction. Dance practice is where Heeseung thrives, after all. It might be nearly half a year removed from trainee life—the monthly evaluations, seeing Taehyun and Heeseung vy for the number one spot from the distance, smarting from the pain of chasing after something he could never reach—but Beomgyu never forgets. 

They watch as Taehyun and Sunghoon goof around on the opposite side of the room, Jay rolling his eyes as Taehyun tries to mimic Sunghoon’s double axels. Jake’s got his arm around Kai’s shoulder, the two of them looking on fondly. 

They’re an odd group, the seven of them. Beomgyu feels strange as the mathyung, thinks that Heeseung suits the role better, but at least Taehyun is a good leader for all of them. Beomgyu takes another look at Heeseung, his crazy clothes and blank faced stare into the distance—always so serious in practice, always so strange outside of it—and can’t help but smile. 

“What is it?” Heeseung asks, nudging Beomgyu’s shoulder. 

Beomgyu nudges him back, an instinctive response. Every action with an equal and opposite reaction, or whatnot. Then he reaches out and parts Heeseung’s bangs, not even bothered by the sensation of sweat-soaked hair under his fingers. 

“There,” Beomgyu says, satisfied. “You’re showing your forehead for once.”

Heeseung tilts his head, considering. “And you like that?” he asks, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. 

Beomgyu opens his mouth, ready to reply with something blustering and full of denial, when Taehyun claps his hands together. 

“Break is over!” he calls, glancing around the room. Beomgyu doesn’t miss the way Taehyun’s eyes run over the two of them, sharp-eyed and far too observant. _Be careful,_ Taehyun had dragged him aside to tell him once. But unlike Beomgyu, Taehyun actually respects his hyungs, won’t say anything outright unless push comes to shove. 

Heeseung pats Beomgyu’s back and gets up first, always quick to return back to the swing of things. And Beomgyu, well—he follows. That’s what he normally does. 

The hours go by quickly enough. By the end of the day Beomgyu’s skin is itchy with that confused wanting and desire. His petty anger warped into something new, forming the prettiest type of trash. 

After all, like Beomgyu’s thirst for perfection, like in anything else he sets his mind to—guitar, composing, reaching debut—he’s insatiable. 

When Beomgyu enters Heeseung’s room after showering, Heeseung’s sitting on his bed, legs crossed and spine straight. 

“Hey,” Beomgyu greets, perhaps unnecessarily. He still has a towel hanging around his neck, little droplets of water speckling his arms. He had showered faster than usual, eager to get Heeseung alone. 

“Hey,” Heeseung echoes back, always a little hollow. But here he is, waiting for Beomgyu, almost expectant—like he had been anticipating this, like he had gotten what he wanted. 

Hasn’t Heeseung always gotten what he set his mind to?

Beomgyu doesn’t bother asking Heeseung where his roommate is. Taehyun had already grabbed his arm in the middle of his walk to Heeseung’s room, whispering a quick _I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, hyung_ that Beomgyu easily brushed off. 

Heeseung isn’t wearing anything as ugly as earlier; the tantalizing, ripped clothes are gone, and Beomgyu doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or not. But, he’s got one of his beanies secured on his head again, and he’s drowning in an oversized t-shirt that exposes his collarbones. 

Beomgyu joins him on the bed, mirroring Heeseung’s criss-crossed seating position; their knees press together. Then, Beomgyu reaches out and hooks two fingers over the low neckline of Heeseung’s shirt. 

“This doesn’t fit, Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu says. Always pointing out the obvious, always saying something that means nothing—it’s perhaps the best defense mechanism he knows. He certainly finds it easier to slip in something important unnoticed, that way. “Did you steal it from Kai?”

Heeseung raises his eyebrows, expectant. “Didn’t _you_?” he returns. 

Beomgyu thinks for a moment, swallowing once he realizes. “Of course.” How could he forget? He had worn this the first time they did this. He still vaguely remembers the sensation of Heeseung tugging this off of him, everything shoved aside hastily to meet the floor. 

“I thought you’d like it, maybe.” Heeseung watches him intently. 

It’s only then that Beomgyu realizes their proximity. They sit closer than he expected, twin flames leaning into each other: something in the danger of burning.

Heeseung grabs Beomgyu’s hand, forcing it off his shirt, then interlaces their fingers together. It’s a smart move, calculated like everything else Heeseung presents to the public. Beomgyu has never been able to make himself immune to faux-romance, to the hidden gentleness of Heeseung’s touch—so different from the harsh lines of his dancing or the hard curve of his mouth as he tries to smile. 

“Maybe.” Beomgyu hums, not willing to give Heeseung the satisfaction of being right just yet. He gives Heeseung a considering glance-over. His beanie looks so fucking stupid, Beomgyu thinks.

Heeseung takes the opportunity to lean in for a kiss, but Beomgyu stops him halfway, hand to chest. 

“Not with that hat on,” Beomgyu says, reaching up to tug it off Heeseung’s head. He tosses it to the side of the bed, uncaring of where it ends up. 

Heeseung pouts half-heartedly, hair flattened to his scalp due to the hat. It shouldn’t be as weirdly attractive as it is, but then again—it’s Heeseung. He manages to make it work, regardless. 

“I _liked_ that hat,” Heeseung tells him. Beomgyu ignores him in favor of running his fingers through Heeseung’s hair, sorting the strands out into something neater. 

“Hm, I guess you’re acceptable now,” Beomgyu says, sticking his tongue out. He pushes Heeseung’s shoulders back. As usual, Heeseung doesn’t give immediately—he’s stronger than Beomgyu by a fairly wide margin—but nevertheless becomes pliant after a couple of moments, his body catching up to his mind. 

Soon they end up just where Beomgyu likes it: him on top straddling Heeseung, his knees bracketing Heeseung’s thighs and his arms looped around Heeseung’s neck, drawing him closer and closer.

Beomgyu can’t miss the amused look in Heeseung’s eyes, the slow, indulgent curve of his mouth as he lets Beomgyu get what he wants. That’s part of the appeal, too—knowing that Heeseung will give up this ground readily, in exchange for a share of Beomgyu’s attention. It’s flattering, it’s precious, it’s something Beomgyu can’t put any thought to for more than a couple moments without losing his mind. 

So instead Beomgyu focuses on making Heeseung lose his.

“This morning. Your shirt was so fucking ugly,” Beomgyu whispers, harsh, pressing their foreheads together. “I wanted—I wanted—”

“Wanted what?” Heeseung asks softly. He shuts his eyes, eyelashes trembling against his cheek. “Come on. Say it.”

“I wanted to rip it off you, obviously,” Beomgyu continues in a rush. He doesn’t bother waiting for Heeseung’s response—doesn’t want to listen to some glib remark in reply, a goading _well, why didn’t you?_ that he can already hear so clearly in his head. Instead, Beomgyu finally closes the distance between their mouths. 

It only takes a couple of moments. He can feel Heeseung relaxing into the kiss, that rigid tension easing out of his spine—the most satisfying thing to Beomgyu. He wants to take it as far as he can get it, dropping his right hand from Heeseung’s neck to fumble underneath his soft t-shirt. Beomgyu knows he’s done the right thing when he feels Heeseung tremble underneath him while his thumb ghosts over a nipple, once, twice, again. 

Beomgyu pauses, breaking away from their kiss. He’s aware of how spit-slicked his lips are, how messy Heeseung has become underneath him—hair mussed and eyes wide with want. 

It isn’t a neat, practiced thing, the two of them. Heeseung’s nothing like the perfect center of their comeback stages, nothing like the outwardly secure hyung he becomes for the younger members. With Beomgyu, behind closed doors, he’s just Heeseung, wanting and desperate like any other boy their age. 

“You like that, huh?” Beomgyu asks, watching Heeseung’s minute changes in expression as he continues rubbing gentle, slow circles with his right thumb. He stops again after a couple moments when Heeseung doesn’t respond. “Heeseung-ah?”

Heeseung bites down on his lower lip. Unlike Beomgyu, sacrificing pride for pleasure comes to him easily enough. 

“Keep doing it,” Heeseung demands quietly. 

Heeseung grasps onto Beomgyu’s other hand, dragging it from his neck and bringing it up underneath his shirt, so that now Beomgyu’s got both of his palms pressed against his chest. “Please.”

Beomgyu considers teasing Heeseung further, for just a moment, but having Heeseung saying _please_ to him like this feels satisfying enough. Besides, Beomgyu’s starting to grow impatient himself, his dick straining uncomfortably against the material of his sleep shorts. 

So Beomgyu leans forward again, and begins making out with Heeseung with renewed fervor, licking his way into Heeseung’s mouth. He’s got his hands on Heeseung’s nipples, has made sure to press forward and grind their erections together, only separated by a few layers of flimsy fabric. Beomgyu’s surrounding Heeseung in every way possible. 

There’s something gratifying about this. Hearing Heeseung’s breathing go shaky, listening to the quiet, secret sounds that only Beomgyu knows. 

Beomgyu almost finds it hard to believe sometimes, that this is the same Heeseung who takes longer than anyone else to break a sweat when they practice choreography. This same Heeseung melts so easily in his hands, like golden wax. Warm and pliable. 

Beomgyu finally can’t take it any longer. He reaches down to shift Heeseung’s shorts and underwear down his thighs. Heeseung doesn’t give him much help, just sits there, a little useless and dazed as Beomgyu attempts to go about it one-handed while still working at Heeseung’s chest. 

“You’re so annoying,” Beomgyu tells Heeseung, hand wrapping around his cock. It isn’t anything good, a scrappy handjob like this, but he figures just the thrill of someone else’s hand like this might do the job for someone as sex-starved as they are. 

When Heeseung reaches over clumsily, clearly intending to return the favor, Beomgyu bats his hand away. “Later,” Beomgyu tells him, leaning in for another sloppy kiss to shut him up. 

Beomgyu doesn’t want to get distracted, doesn’t want Heeseung to reverse the tides and take away his carefully placed control just yet. Heeseung doesn’t even say anything to protest, just sighs. It isn’t long before he comes, messy and muffled over Beomgyu’s fingers. 

Heeseung really is quite pretty like this, Beomgyu thinks. He might be the one scouted for his face, the one who didn’t need to alter a single facet of his physical appearance before debut, but there’s something charming about Heeseung’s flushed cheeks and ski-slope nose and drowsy, satisfied smile as he watches Beomgyu.

Beomgyu averts his gaze, staring down at his hand in mild distaste instead. He looks up and grabs at Heeseung’s shirt with his clean fingers. “Get this off.”

Heeseung blinks. “What—” 

“Just do it,” Beomgyu interrupts. Now that Heeseung has finished, Beomgyu’s starting to become aware of how achingly hard he is. 

But first, he wipes his hand off on the material of Heeseung’s t-shirt. 

“Sorry,” Beomgyu says, not apologetic in the slightest. He takes a moment to appreciate Heeseung shirtless: the flat, smooth planes of his chest, the muscles Beomgyu has never bothered to work for. 

“Whatever.” Heeseung shrugs. “It was your shirt anyway, Beomgyu-yah,” he says, crossing his arms. He eyes Beomgyu shrewdly, lips pursed in thought. “Since I took mine off, it’s only fair that you do the same, isn’t it?”

Beomgyu bites down on his lower lip, worries it with his teeth for a moment, before he nods. Fair is fair, even if something about Heeseung makes Beomgyu want to cheat at every game regardless. He shrugs his shirt off and fights the urge to fold in on himself or cross his arms over his body. Beomgyu knows he looks good. 

Something shifts, then; Newton’s third law once again. After all, Beomgyu can only take as much as he can give, and Heeseung is the same. 

Heeseung reaches out, one hand cupping the side of Beomgyu’s face gently. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. He taps his thumb against Beomgyu’s bottom lip. “So good.”

Beomgyu presses his lips together, afraid of making a sound. It’s always been difficult for him to keep his mouth shut. 

Here’s the thing: it may be easy for him to make Heeseung fall apart with just a couple touches, but even that’s nothing compared to the way Heeseung can make him feel while barely lifting a finger. 

And Heeseung knows it, too, his eyes widening with delight as he trails his thumb down Beomgyu’s neck, palm loosely resting against his Adam’s apple. Heeseung doesn’t apply any pressure there; he doesn’t have to, just the mere suggestion of it setting Beomgyu on edge. 

“Beomgyu,” he says, casual. 

“Heeseung-ah.” Beomgyu’s starting to feel impatient, has wanted to chase after his release for far too long. 

Heeseung leans forward, mouth wet against the outer shell of Beomgyu’s ear as he whispers: “It’s my turn now, to make _you_ feel good.”

**Author's Note:**

> um anyway. i may be crazy but i am free <3 [twitter](https://twitter.com/storyboxed) \+ [cc](http://curiouscat.qa/axiomatic)
> 
> comments are appreciated!


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